"VIXI PUELLIS'

WE loved of yore, in warfare bold,

Nor laurelless. Now all must go;

Let this left wall of Venus show The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold,

And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite,-smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore!

"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE"

WHEN

HEN I saw you last, Rose,
You were only so high;-

How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows,
You just peeped at the sky,
When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose,
Now your May-time is nigh ;-
How fast the time goes!

And a life,-how it grows!
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes!)

Is it Cupid? Who knows!
Yet you used not to sigh,
When I saw you last, Rose ;-
How fast the time goes!

ON A NANKIN PLATE

"AH me, but it might have been!

Was there ever so dismal a fate?".

Quoth the little blue mandarin.

"Such a maid as was never seen!

She passed, tho' I cried to her 'Wait,'Ah me, but it might have been!

"I cried, O my Flower, my Queen, Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate," Quoth the little blue mandarin,—

"But then.. she was just sixteen,— Long-eyed, as a lily straight,

-

Ah me, but it might have been !

"As it was, from her palankeen,

She laughed 'You're a week too late!'" (Quoth the little blue mandarin.)

"That is why, in a mist of spleen,
I mourn on this Nankin Plate.
Ah me, but it might have been!"
Quoth the little blue mandarin.

FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS

SINGER of the field and fold,

THEOCRITUS! Pan's pipe was thine,Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,— The beechen bowl made glad with wine.. Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,-
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . .
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine :-
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold!

"TU NE QUAESIERIS"

SEEK

EEK not, O Maid, to know (Alas! unblest the trying!) When thou and I must go.

No lore of stars can show.
What shall be, vainly prying,
Seek not, O maid, to know.

Will Jove long years bestow?—
Or is 't with this one dying,
That thou and I must go,

Now, when the great winds blow, And waves the reef are plying? . . Seek not, O Maid, to know.

Rather let clear wine flow,
On no vain hope relying;
When thou and I must go

Lies dark; then be it so.
Now, now, churl Time is flying;

Seek not, O Maid, to know

When thou and I must go.